Chapter Text
Villain stopped at the foot of the bed and looked down at his sleeping nemesis. Soft breaths – low and steady – dead to the world. Villain had carefully avoided tripping the secret front-door alarm, and the kid clearly hadn’t heard Villain force the door open after he’d bypassed the entry code. He’d closed it behind himself silently; it had automatically locked and re-armed. And now it was just the two of them in Hero’s bedroom.
Hero was stretched out on his back in a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt and boxers. His sheets and covers had been kicked aside, like he’d been too hot in the night. His legs and feet were bare. His mouth was slightly open, jaw slack. In the yellow-soft light from the streetlamp outside the window, he looked like any other mortal.
Villain had never seen his naked legs before. In the soft darkness of the bedroom, his skin looked like anyone else’s. Unless you knew differently, you wouldn’t be able to tell.
With care but no concern, Villain lowered himself to sit on the side of the bed. He let the weight of his body transfer onto the mattress (lumpy, cheap), watched Hero’s body tilt slightly towards Villain’s body weight.
They were so close, now – almost touching.
Villain resisted the urge to rush it. Instead, he watched a gentle frown move over Hero’s face as he subconsciously registered that something in his environment had changed. Slowly, slowly, his dark eyes opened – first narrow, then, after several slow, sleepy blinks, a little wider – and then recognition snapped him into full alert.
Just as swiftly, Villain was pressing his clothed arms down into the mattress, keeping his clothed torso pinned with his own body weight. The kid struggled, but there was no danger of him dislodging Villain. He had 6 inches and at least 100 lbs on the kid, and the kid had no super strength – it was easy to establish order.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Hero snarled, but he didn’t stick the landing – his voice was sleep-heavy, still confused. He’d never been known for his bravado. Didn’t stop him from trying. “If you’re mad about losing our last fight – ”
Villain leaned down close, a companionable distance. “Never let it be said that I’m a poor loser,” he said, low and friendly. “I’ve got something to show you.”
“Send me an e-vite first next time,” Hero snapped. He was still struggling beneath Villain’s hands, his body weight. Villain could feel his warmth though their layers, even through his leather gloves.
Villain shifted, so that his body weight pressed down on Hero’s lungs. He couldn’t let go of the kid’s arms yet. The kid gasped under the burden of Villain’s body. Their faces were very, very close now – Villain could feel the kid’s warm breath on his lips, still a little muggy from sleep.
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
Carefully, Villain shifted his weight again, just enough that he was able to bring one gloved hand to rest on the kid’s forehead. He was warm. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was running a fever. Villain knew better.
He could feel the kid panicking now. His dark, almond-shaped eyes darted over Villain’s face, searching for something, anything, that would give him a clue. Villain had never touched him like this before. Nobody touched him like this. Nobody could.
“What are you … what …”
“Articulate,” he teased, but softly.
The streetlight smudged the deep hollow of his philtrum, picked out the lines of his Cupid’s bow.
And then Villain brought their lips together.
*
Late-onset, the doctors had called it. Most children’s powers began developing at the age of five. Hero’s hadn’t started manifesting until he was in his early teens – but when they came, they came hard. One day, his friend noticed a tingling in his hand when he gave Hero a high-five at school. The next, there were rashes after rugby practice. A few weeks later, his father screamed in the middle of an embrace – pushed him away, and they stared at each other in horror as angry red welts began to form on his father’s face.
They hadn’t known it at the time, but that was the last time he’d ever touch his father.
Things had moved quickly after that. Hospital. Tests. An airlift to the fancier hospital. More tests. The diagnosis – curse? – was impressive. Pyrotechnic. Incredibly rare. Possibly the most powerful ever recorded in North America in 200 years. He hadn’t felt powerful – he’d been so scared he threw up on the spot.
You’ll learn to control it, the therapists had promised, patting him on the back through a layer of protective plastic sheeting.
They’d been right, in the end. He learned to control it, to channel it to his will. Not as well as some other people could manage their powers, but then – as he noted acidly – other people didn’t have to hold themselves in check to avoid accidentally killing a stranger on the subway. Well enough, though. Well enough to be … useful. The job offers had come pretty soon after that. He was a Super, after all, and folks wanted him on their team, even if he had a reputation for being surly. Soon after, of course, came the death threats. You couldn’t throw in your lot with heroes and not expect the villains to get involved.
He’d gone underground, like most Supers did, and that had been that. There’d been no looking back. What was the point? A normal life was closed to him. He couldn’t touch his family, couldn’t touch his friends, couldn’t pet a dog, for Christ’s sake.
He liked working with the team, for the most part. Saving people, chasing bad guys. But he had to be careful. He could generate and channel the fire, and the fire protected him, but he was still mortal. He couldn’t heal himself. He had regular human strength and the regular human allergy to falling off tall buildings. Most villains knew better than to get in close proximity – but a bullet? A stab wound? A lucky punch? All dangerous, all potentially fatal.
So he was careful. He looked before he leapt. He wore his mask on jobs like a good little superhero and kept locks on his doors and scrubbed his digital footprint and never, ever, let anyone get close enough to touch him.
*
It was barely more than a brush of lips – a test, to see what the kid would do. He didn’t disappoint. His eyes went wide, his arms fell to the side, his resistance momentarily waylaid. Mistake. Swiftly, Villain pulled up the hem of the kid’s shirt and forced it over his head, baring his chest and trapping his arms in a single motion.
“Hey!”
He had never seen the kid’s chest before – had never seen his collarbones or shoulders or biceps. Hero kept himself buttoned up at all times. He looked … delicate.
The kid wriggled, made a noise of protest – but went silent as Villain leaned back down, propped on his elbows this time so he wasn’t crushing the air out of him. He lowered his head for another kiss. Barely a kiss. Just a touch. Their lips caught, the slightly moist skin gently clinging to the other’s for a brief moment, before Villain pulled back to look in his eyes.
Slowly, so that he didn’t spook the kid, he raised one hand to his own face. He bit the tip of one finger, pulled off his glove. The kid’s eyes tracked his naked hand as he moved it down, down … and pressed it to Hero’s chest. Left it there, splayed wide, pale fingers contrasting against Hero’s darker skin. The kid’s heart hammered beneath his palm.
Hero looked back up at him. Stunned. Wondrous. Afraid.
“Are you fucking with me?” he whispered.
Villain obviously wasn’t. He wiggled his fingers against Hero’s chest. Proof.
Villain watched his eyes as the full weight of the situation – all of its implications – landed on hero like a ton of bricks.
“Why are you doing this? How?”
It didn’t matter how he’d done it, he’d done it.
And if Villain was close enough to touch him, then he was close enough to hurt him, and Hero had no defenses left – was not stronger or faster or smarter than Villain, could be sidelined and manipulated to work against the team, was weak, was vulnerable, was useless –
Villain shifted his weight again, sat up, stripped off his own vest and shirt and his remaining glove, and lowered himself again so they were pressed chest to chest, hips to hips. The kid hissed at the contact, or gasped, Villain couldn’t quite tell. God, he was hot.
“How’s that feel?” asked Villain, returning his hand to the kid’s forehead, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face.
Nobody had done that since – since –
“Get off me!”
The kid’s face twisted. He renewed his struggles, attempted to pull his arms out from where they were trapped in the sleeves of his shirt, pinned beneath his own body weight.
Villain hadn’t known how this was going to go. Hadn’t known if the kid would welcome his touch or resist it. But looking down at him, he realized he hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected the kid to be so desperate, so overwhelmed. His face was flushed, his voice cracking. Tears were pooling in his eyes. He was twisting beneath him in an attempt to push him away, but Villain didn’t move, just shifted and stroked his forehead.
“Shh. Baby.”
And that was enough.
Hero burst into tears. He turned his head in an attempt to hide his face, but he stopped struggling. He gave himself over to the sobs – shallow and fast, uncontrolled.
“What – what do you want? Why are you doing this?” he managed, shaking, clearly afraid. He had worked out the implications. Probably in more detail than Villain had.
“A couple things,” he said, wiping a tear track away with his thumb. “But not all tonight,” he said, making his mind up in the moment. “Not all at once.”
Villain leaned down. Slowly, so that he’d know he was coming. Like a woodlander trying not to spook a fawn. This time, when Villain pressed his lips against Hero’s, there was a soft answering pressure.
Hello.
Hello, yourself.
Just the briefest reciprocity, and … there, just there, heat. A soft gasp that Hero couldn’t hide or suppress.
Hero wasn’t going to ask for it, Villain realized. But he wanted.
Villain ran his hand up Hero’s beautiful bare chest, watched his eyes flutter shut. An entire adult life without touch. No embraces, no casual touches, no kisses over coffee. And certainly nothing like this – the long slow draw of Villain’s fingers over Hero’s trembling tummy. Because he was trembling now, undeniably.
Hero squeezed his eyes shut, and Villain felt a pang of lust. By god, the way he was biting that full lower lip … Villain hadn’t quite been prepared for the full pathetic sight of him, laid out beneath him, golden-skinned. Angry. Trapped. And … desperate. Hot.
And there, where their hips were pressed against one another’s, a definite sign of interest. Villain was still wearing his heavy tac pants, but he could feel the kid’s reaction to the first friendly touch since puberty.
So quiet it was almost a whisper: “Are you fucking with me?” Underneath, the real question: are you going to hurt me? And beneath that: are you going to humiliate me for wanting this, when I never got to have it?
Villain made a decision.